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But Roxanne heard only betrayal, awound deeper than any words could salve. "Fine," she spat out, thesyllable sharp and bitter. "If that's how it is—if my own sister can't seepast the sins of our absentee father long enough to value the one family memberwho's always been there—then maybe I don't belong here either."
With a flurry of movement, Roxannestormed out. The door slammed behind her with a finality that resounded louderthan the thunderous waves crashing against the cliffs outside.
"Roxanne!" The call wasfutile; Charlotte knew it even as the name left her lips. She turned back tothe room, to the chaos of paint cans and tools, and to the mess of emotionsthat swirled around her like the briny air of Chesham Cove.
Charlotte stood motionless, thelingering vibration of the slammed door reverberating through her bones. Herhands, still gripping the paintbrush, were flecked with the coastal hues shehad chosen to breathe new life into The Crown Inn. A gust of wind rattled thewindowpanes, drawing Charlotte's gaze toward the sea beyond. The waveswhispered secrets to the shore, an eternal conversation between old friends.She longed for such a dialogue with Roxanne, a chance to let the tide wash awaythe harsh words.
Descending the ladder, she pointed atHenry and frowned.
“Okay, buddy—enough is enough. We aregoing to talk, one on one. I have questions, and you’re giving me answers. It’stime to stop this cycle once and for all.”
His face twisted in surprise, Henryjust pointed to the chair across from him—and Charlotte plunked down, ready tointerrogate him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The afternoon sun filtered through thestained-glass windows of The Old Crown Inn eat wing library, casting mosaics ofcolor across the worn wooden floor. Charlotte Moore watched as the fragments oflight danced along the surface, mirroring the flutter in her heart. She turnedtoward Henry Anderson, her father, a man who felt both familiar and like astranger.
"Henry,” Charlotte began, hervoice soft but laden with the weight of years unsaid. "I've spent so muchtime painting seascapes and skies, trying to capture moments of beauty andpeace. But I realized that some things, some truths, can't be brushed ontocanvas."
She paused. "I need to understand,Dad. After all these years, why did you leave? And why do you avoid us, yourfamily?"
The question hung in the air, asdelicate and fragile as the tea cups lined up on the shelves behind them, eachone holding its own story. Charlotte searched Henry's face, looking for anycrack in the facade that might let her glimpse the man who once builtsandcastles with her on the Jersey shore, before he became a memory, an absencethat shaped her life.
The silence stretched, filled only bythe distant sound of waves caressing the coast of Chesham Cove—a lullaby tolost chances and what-ifs. Charlotte's heart ached with the need for answers,for closure. She held her breath, waiting for Henry to fill the void, to beginthe healing that both desperately needed.
“Look, this isn't easy for me either,but we can't keep dancing around the past like it’s a maypole. We need to faceit head-on."
Henry chuckled, a sound as evasive asthe shadows playing across the room, cast by the flickering candlelight."Life's a dance, isn't it?" he mused, gesturing vaguely toward thewindow where the last vestiges of daylight surrendered to the encroachingtwilight. "You step forward, you step back. The music changes, but thedance goes on."
"Except when one of the dancersdisappears without so much as a goodbye," Charlotte countered softly, hergaze unwavering.
Her father's smile faltered, just for amoment, before he caught himself. "I suppose I've never been much of adancer," he conceded, eyeing the worn floorboards as though expecting themto rise up and join the conversation.
"Then talk to me, Dad. Not as adancer, not with riddles or jests or pithy metaphors. Just... as you," shepressed, her hands folded atop her lap, a silent plea etched into the lines ofher knuckles. "Tell me about the grief, the guilt. Share it with me sothat maybe, just maybe, we can start to mend these broken steps."
Henry's laughter had died away, leavinga hollowness in its wake that seemed to echo off the ancient walls of The OldCrown Inn. Charlotte watched him closely, saw the battle raging behind hisguarded eyes—a tempest threatening to break through his carefully constructedlevees.
"Charlotte," he began, histone shifting, no longer buoyant but laden with the weight of unspoken years."It's... complicated. You know that."
"I do," she whispered,nodding slowly. "But it's a complication we must untangle together as afamily. Please, let me in."
The inn around them held its breath,the air thick with anticipation and the salt-tinged breeze that whisperedthrough the open window. The quiet corner of the inn had become a makeshiftconfessional, shrouded in shadows. Charlotte watched the struggle play acrossher father's face—the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the furrow thatdeepened on his brow.
"Is it so hard to talk tome?" Charlotte's voice was soft but insistent, echoing slightly in thehushed space.
"Charlotte," Henry sighed,his voice barely above the crackling of the fire in the hearth. "I'vespent years building up walls. It's not easy, tearing them down—"
"Even if what's on the other sideis worth seeing?" she interjected gently, leaning forward, her eyessearching his.
"Okay," he breathed, a wordheavy with the surrender Charlotte had been seeking.
She didn't move, didn't want to startlethe moment into flight. "Dad, why did you leave? Why did you disappearfrom our lives without a single word?"
The question hung in the air, minglingwith the scent of salt and old timber. Henry's hands stilled, and he drew in abreath that seemed to reach down to his very soul before exhaling a truth longheld captive.
"Leaving was...it wasn'tplanned," he started, his voice a thread of vulnerability that unraveledwith each confession. "One day I was looking at all the memories, all thethings your mother left behind, and I just...couldn't breathe. I needed toescape, to find a place where every corner didn't remind me of her, of what I'dlost—of what I couldn’t save her from."
Charlotte's heart clenched at hiswords, sorrow threading through the spaces between her ribs. She realized that,like the relentless waves outside, her father had been caught in a storm of hisown making, tossed about by currents of regret and longing.
